


Cousins and Archons, Oh My

by WashedAwayCloud (HowlingSentinel)



Series: The Life and Times of Clarice Trevelyan [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age Kink Meme, F/M, Gen, Language is fairly strong but just in snippets, There might be a kiss to look forward to maybe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-06 12:19:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3134267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HowlingSentinel/pseuds/WashedAwayCloud
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[ Spoilers! ]</p><p>Lady Clarice Trevelyan, Mage, Herald of Andraste, Inquisitor - a long list of names for a woman touched by fate rather than deities. Halamshiral is a success - no one dies, the elves have their means to change, and the assassination attempt is thwarted.<br/>Halamshiral garners the attention of the most powerful people in Thedas. Halamshiral garners the attention of Archon Danyal Radonis - ruler of the Tevinter Imperium. Alliances are made, the world moves on, and then, the winds of change start up again.<br/>Radonis is coming to Orlais- for Clarice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cousins?

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt [ Spoilers! ]:  
> You can make an alliance with the Archon of the Tevinter Imperium, in the game. Josephine he's rumored to like cats. I'd love to read about a scenario where he visits the Inquisition or they eventually visit him, as a show of gratitude for their developing arrangement.
> 
> For the sake of this request, let's say he is unmarried, has no children and is 30s-50s. Might be neat if he visits to actually seek a marriage with a F!Mage Trevelyan to strengthen his rule and attempts selling it as such to the Inquisitor. Bonus points if they actually get on well and the Inquisitor is really considering it, and Dorian is feeling kind of betrayed his friend is getting so friendly with the Archon of all people.
> 
> So this is going to be fairly quick fire, I'm anticipating between five and ten short chapters, however, we'll see how that plan goes.

“And when, exactly, were you going to tell me we're cousins five generations removed?”

The Inquisitor jumps, eyes wide as she turns toward the owner of the voice. Dorian Pavus, the mage from Tevinter. Dorian was her cousin? And only five generations removed at that? She had family in  _Tevinter_. Would the wonders never cease? The so called Herald of fucking Andraste, had ties to - Oh Maker, Josephine was going to have kittens. Leliana might as well trying to keep  _this_  from getting out. 

“Ah, I can tell from that wide eyed stare you had no idea. Nor did any of your advisors, even you Spymaster? The wonder of it. Yes, we’re cousins. Now, the terribly evil Tevinter is whisking away his fade chosen cousin for a quick chat. Don’t start an exalted march while we’re away.” 

Clarice is pulled away from her advisors then, tugged into the depths of Skyhold. She hadn’t thought anyone else knew about her little library alcove. Dorian apparently did. He knew everything it seemed. For a moment it’s quiet, he was waiting for her brain to catch up with the information no doubt.

“Why – how do you know we’re cousins?”

“I received the most fascinating letter. From the  _Archon._ ”

Clarice’s mind whirls into overdrive. A letter from the Archon – oh shit. “About?”  _ **Play it innocent, act like you have no idea you allied with Tevinter against the Venatori.**_  Maybe Dorian’s wrath won’t be so…wrathful, if she play acted well enough.. 

“You know what about, you sneaky little chit. The Archon wanted to thank me for having some sort of influence over you to get you to acquiesce to the alliance. An alliance I had no idea the blighted  _Inquisition of southern Thedas_  would even consider. So, imagine my surprise, cousin, at that point.”

“Immense, I’m sure.” The mage feels like she’s five again, under the heated gaze of her closest friend. He had to be related to her mother, the look was the same. 

“Immense doesn’t even touch on it. However, I digress. Our delightful ruler, my delightful ruler is coming here. He’s already sent a letter to Josephine no doubt, and she’s already accepted the request. As if she could refuse. The reason he wrote to me is because he wants you.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Exactly that.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“As serious as the lack of hygiene within the warriors ranks.” 

“Oh Maker.”

“Yes.”

“Oh no. Oh Andraste’s flaming swords –“

“Praying isn’t going to make this go away.”

“But I didn’t!”

“I know, dear.”

“He isn’t evil, is he?”

“What? No! I thought we got over that whole Tevinter is the realm of all evil bit? Besides, he has a well known love of cats. No one who is evil can love cats. Doesn't do any of the fun stuff, or so I hear. You'll be safe as houses with him. I think.” 

 


	2. A Glance at Power

Clarice stews over the idea of a visit from the Archon for three weeks, demanding every piece of knowledge Dorian has gathered over the years to be shared, as well as anything Leliana or Josephine knows of the man. Josephine is more than willing to regale the Inquisitor of the gossip that filters out of Tevinter, lending little weight to the rumors but telling them all the same – one never knows what is real and made up after all. Evidence of the woman having played the Game for many years now. She also asserted that the Archon was a politician, quite a good one in fact, well spoken, and magically powerful.

Leliana’s information is dryer subject matter. Archon Radonis was young, in his thirties, and had lived a largely academic life, apprentice to the former Archon, had a great love of travel, was quite intelligent by all accounts and charming.

If the two women’s information hadn’t given the Inquisitor pause, Dorian’s surely would have.  Dorian described Radonis as a man who knew exactly how to gain what he wanted, protect what he needed, all while carefully discarding the superfluous. Apparently _several_ of the Magisterium had been replaced during Radonis’ rule, and it had been without any uproar, without smear campaigns or threats.

It wasn’t a wonder that Josephine had considered the Archon a better candidate to ally with after all.

Even with the Archon’s impending visit of ‘gratitude’ Clarice has business to attend to. There are entire regions of Orlais under siege by either the rogue Templars or Venatori to liberate. The young scion of Trevelyan is gone from her keep for over a month, firmly entrenched in the Exalted Plains when a raven comes for her. It takes only a week for the group of four to make it back to the mountain stronghold; leaving Cullen's men to safeguard their progress into the region.

Clarice desperately wished it had taken longer. The moment her steed passes through the gates, runners are trailing her. Two from the Commander, _five_ from Leliana and just one from Josephine, that particular runner is the most insistent of the bunch. The young man follows her all the way to her horse’s pen where the others linger at the mouth of the stables for her.

“Your worship.”

“Yes?” Clarice is tired, dirty from the road and not at all interested in meeting with anyone.

“Your worship, the Imperial Archon arrived yesterday, Lady Montilyet arranged for you to have dinner tomorrow night together. Tonight, you have two judgments to attend to, not to mention formally greeting his Imperial Majesty.”

“Thank you, you may-“

“Actually, there is more your worship.” The boy’s face heats up but he’s gamely moving on a head. “Lady Montilyet regrets to inform you the welcome will immediately precede a feast in the Imperial Archon’s honor, you should dress according to station, my lady.”

“Oh bullocks.” The words are out before Clarice can stifle them, that message meant a dress, not robes, nor the supremely comfortable pantsuit she’d taken to wearing around the Keep. That also meant a corset, something she’s been going without for ages now.

There had better be a copious amount of wine at this feast in the Archon’s honor, or the mage isn’t sure she’ll survive it. To avoid the eye of most of the nobles, Clarice takes the back way into the keep, up the winding staircase to the kitchens where she lingers a few moments, coaxing a hand pie from one of the cooks. It was still warm and filled with spiced beef. Fragrant, delicious, the brunette’s eaten it completely before she emerges in Josephine’s office.

“Your Worship,” Josephine’s light Antivan accent brushes over the other woman like a salve. She did enjoy the company of her diplomatic advisor a great deal, even if this feast was rather spur of the moment.

 

“Lady Montilyet – I trust the keep has been swept and polished within an inch of its life since I’ve been gone.” Clarice is only half teasing; having seen a bit of what Josephine was capable of when it came to matters of impression. The ball at Halamshiral – or rather, Clarice’s attire, had been testament to that.

A soft chuckle is her answer as she closes the door to the stairs. “That and more, your worship, I trust my runner got to you?”

“Yes, the others gave up when they saw him follow me all the way to Ryker’s pen. I imagine that will place you in a bit of hot water with our spymaster and commander.” 

“Nothing I cannot handle. The Archon’s reception is very important and they are both well aware of that. Forgiveness will not be an issue, nor will prolonged anger. In fact, I wager it will dissolve after the first cup of winter wine.” The Ambassador is standing from behind her desk, walking toward the Inquisitor with a decidedly playful light in her eyes. 

“Seeing as you chose to use this entrance, I must assume you mean to avoid the nobles lingering in the main hall as much as possible until the judgments and formal introduction? Allow me to escort you to your quarters.”

Clarice’s head cants to the side, green eyes narrowing in suspicion. This was out of the ordinary. The golden clad woman had something up her sleeve. She just can’t figure out what that is, as she allows Josephine’s arm to tangle with hers and the other woman to lead her from the office.   
When they leave the hallway and walk into the throne room proper, the mage is beyond pleased to have an Advisor as her escort. The place is teeming with nobles, all of them furiously whispering behind fans and masks to one other. They barely notice her, which is new and extremely welcome for the Inquisitor. Her head cranes to see what they are all looking and whispering about.

It is then she catches her first glimpse of Tevinter’s Imperial Archon. He is, well, he’s, he’s – 

“Isn’t he gorgeous?” Josephine’s voice at her ear makes Clarice flush scarlet jerking her head to look at the other woman with a brow raised. “You can’t deny that he is.” 

She’s right, too, damn her. Clarice cannot say that the Archon isn’t handsome. He’s exceedingly handsome, actually. They had said he was in his thirties, but Clarice couldn’t see it. Or perhaps couldn’t make herself see it from that one quick glance. He’d been lounged at the head of the table farthest from her, a hand lazily lifting a goblet to his lips a he listened to Varric. Trust it to be Varric assigned to entertain him. The one time she didn’t bring him along – well, perhaps it was a boon.  
Still, the man was tall, not a giant, like Bull, but a touch taller than the Commander seemed when sitting down, his legs stretched before him, pants of impeccable tailoring playing that length up no doubt. His robes were – exquisite, if modest compared to Dorian’s – though that was to be expected. Her cousin was quite fond of drawing attention to himself after all. They hung on the Archon just so, the deep purple of his coat eye catching while his shirt and pants were of a darker color. The way they hung on him told the world that this man wasn’t some lazy noble or feeble scholar. He was a ruler, a capable ruler. 

He possessed a tanned complexion, as most northerners seemed to, chestnut hair pulled back from his temples into a pony tale, the bottom waves left to hang. A neat beard graced his face, but did not hide the line of his jaw. While short, amazingly so, it was a good beard, neither patchy nor untamed like Blackwall’s tended to be. He had a prominent nose, best described as aristocratic. It seemed to suit his face, but then she had only glimpsed his profile. 

“Did you get a look at his eyes? I’ve never seen bluer eyes than his. Like gems. Oh, his voice, Inquisitor!” Josephine makes a fanning motion with her hand as they head into the tower that held the Inquisitor’s quarters. Clarice shakes her head, lips curling in amusement.

“Why didn’t Dorian mention the Archon was – was. He made me think he was some imposing creature full of secrets and devious! Not. Not that. “ The younger of the pair fumbles with her words, making the ambassador laugh gently while guiding her into her room. 

There is a bath waiting, along with a new dress laid upon her bed. This one a distinctly different kind to the one she’d worn in Orlais for the masquerade at the Winter Palace. It was cream, styled like that of Ostwick’s nobility, and decorated with delicate embroidery, precious stones dotted here and there in the artwork. It reminded Clarice of a gown she’d seen her mother wear once, before she’d been sent to the circle and never saw the woman again.

“He likely wanted to warn you off the Archon. Dorian seems to be of the opinion no one in power within Tevinter is to be trusted. He may have a point, he might be biased. We will have to learn that during the Archon’s visit. Now, undress, get into that tub and send for one of your maids’s to help with your hair when you’re finished. We might be entertaining one man of the Imperium, but we’ve also a hall full of Nobles who play the Game. You have to shine tonight.”

“Yes, mother.”

Clarice waves away her ambassador, beginning to pull at the laces to her boots while Josephine makes her way back out. Sinking into the warm water not five minutes later, Clarice sighs.  It was time to play the Game again.


	3. The Game or something like it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisitor and Imperial Archon finally speak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said this would be quick fire, but the Archon is taking on a life of his own. I was planning on just ten installments, but I might not be able to do it in ten. Cross your fingers and hope I can complete this! Also: all errors are mine.

The fair Inquisitor felt no need to rush her ablutions, letting the water’s heat leach the fatigue from her limbs instead. It was a treat to have a proper bath these days, living on the road and in the field as they all did. She would not waste the luxury, and if the Archon truly wanted to meet her, to express gratitude for the alliance as his missive to Josephine indicated – well, he would be content to wait.  Only when her skin is buffed pink, her nails clean, and her hair completely devoid of dirt does Clarice hoist herself from now tepid waters.

She smells faintly of Andraste’s Grace, a wildflower well known in Ferelden. It had to be Josephine or Leliana’s doing; she had fallen out of the habit since the Inquisition’s start, on Varric’s advice actually. Carrying perfumed soaps or oils could prove a liability, more so if people began to identify her by scent. It would make her easy to spot for assassins.

Drying herself quickly – for Skyhold was always a touch colder than she’d like – Clarice approaches the dress and all it’s underpinnings. It wasn’t as elaborate as Orlais’ gown, not by a long shot, but it still required a corset and stockings in addition to her normal small cloths.  Sighing, she rings for a maid to help her with the blasted corset. Made of sapling bones and the finest of linens, it was hell to get on properly by one’s self.

The maid is there within ten minutes, the corset slid over her head and her waist cinched in just enough for her back to be straight and waist to be gently nipped in. She could breath and move unhindered, a testament, perhaps, to her upbringing more than anything else. Next was the dress. Clean and scented in the same manner. Clarice was going to have words with her lady advisors. This was going to give the wrong impression to anyone who strayed within five feet of her. Scented, pulled in at the waist?

This made her look like _marriageable_ nobility, not simply the leader of a great army. She heaves a sigh as she’s sat before her mirror. The maid is one Lady Trevelyan knows fairly well, having spoken to her often when in residence at the keep. Her name is Rena. A quiet girl of no more than twenty, who was quite skilled with hair and better at sneaking about unnoticed to deliver notes.

Rena is starting in on Clarice’s mass of hair, the near black length of it curling rebelliously already. The brush pulls through the thick locks, taming it as pins are produced.  The coif is simple, but more elaborate than the Inquisitor is really happy about. It softens her too much, makes her look young, makes her look -

“Something simpler, please Rena. It’s beautiful but –“

“You wish a more severe impression given, your Worship?” The girl was quick as a whip.  The pins are pulled and the process starts again. Clarice is left with a simple bun and strategic curls left about her face. Severe, but not austere – she has an air of authority now.

“Thank you, this is perfect.”

“I am happy to have been of service your Worship. Now, best get your slippers on and yourself down stairs. The advisors were rumbling about how long you were taking up here. Sister Nightingale looked about ready to come up and get you.”

The brunette chuckles darkly while nodding, leaving her seat and walking with Rena to her red satin slippers. In the end; they exit her tower together, the maid slipping off as all eyes turned to Lady Trevelyan as she made her way to her throne. Maker above, she detested this part of politics, even as new to it as she is. It is daunting to have every eye in the room on you, to have people of rank and those of none all straining to hear what will be said. To judge, to weigh your decisions again and again amongst themselves.

She has no idea how Celene has kept up with the Game for as many years as she has. Her lips curl, however, as she takes a seat, eyes roaming around the room. She knows most of the masks, nobles that accompanied her to Therinfold Redoubt and decided to keep court with her rather than return to the upheaval of Val Royeaux now that Ambassador Brialla had a voice and Celene’s ear.

Dorian is in attendance today, looking angrier than she’s ever seen him, and she already knows why that is. Her eyes shift to the Archon, and her breath catches in her throat. Gems indeed. Depthless pools of blue that seem to see straight into her soul, to watch her, there is curiosity there, in that face, interest hidden just behind aloofness.

“Bring the first to be judged, Ambassador Montilyet.” Her voice rings true, and for that she sends a prayer to the heavens. She could show no weakness tonight, not with any gesture, not with a single syllable. This was just as important as Halamshiral.

The first to be brought forward was the Mayor of Crestwood, finally found by her troops after several weeks of evasion. Clarice is almost impressed with how well the man could hide.  Josephine lists the charges, the willful murder of townsfolk both blighted and not, the willful destruction of a town, and the subsequent cover up.

“What do you have to say for yourself, Serah?”

“The blight can’t be cured, you all know that.” His voice is heavy with defeat, tinged with shame. “I did what I had to to save the ones that weren’t infected.”

“And were there those who were _not_ blighted that stayed?”  
“Yes, I could not convince them to leave their families, and – they were drowned as well.”

She had several choices here, letting him live in exile, handing him to the King of Fereldan or Executing him herself. She leans back in the seat, eyes not wavering from the shackled man before her. “Tell me, Mayor Dedrick, do you feel _any_ remorse for your actions?”

“No, your Worship, for I did what was right.”

A heavy sigh leaves her, heads swivel from the accused to the one who would lay punishment. Her back straightens, she pulls in a breath – “A clean death for you, Dedrick and that is more than you deserve.”

Josephine, if she is startled, does not show it. The nobles, however, suck in breaths. This is the first execution the Inquisition will dole out.  Knight-Captain Denham had been conscripted, Chief Movran exiled to Tevinter. Her lips purse and she turns toward her Ambassador.

“The next. This is our final of the docket, correct?”

“Yes, your Worship. The Grand Duchess Florianne de Chalons. Her crime is attempted assassination  - Treason. Her Imperial Majesty, the Empress, defers to our judgment on the matter." Clarice is more than aware of Florianne’s crimes, and her guilt. She leans back in her chair, hands folded in her lap. “ Grand Duchess, I have no need to hear what you say in your defense. I was witness, as were my entire inner circle, to the extent of your crimes and the attempt on the life of the Empress. Your titles are stripped, claims void, and you shall be - from now until the disbanding of the Inquisition – the court Jester.” There had already been one judgment of execution tonight; Clarice would not see another – and one of noble blood? No, it was better to strip Florianne of her power, her usefulness to Corypheous and keep a vigilant eye on her. 

Standing from her throne as the former Grand Duchess is lead away, Clarice moves to Josephine’s side. Her hand lights on the woman’s arm to gain her attention for a moment.

“Your Worship?”

“Have Florianne completely stripped and searched, none of her clothing is to be returned to her, provide her with something simple and have Leliana post people outside her quarters. We have to make sure she didn’t come with anything …interesting.”

“Understood.” The pale brunette favors the other with a smile before taking a breath and steeling her nerves. It was time, to formally meet the Archon. She turns and Josephine steps forward, clearing her throat to gain order of the room.  

“Lords and Ladies, now that our unpleasant business has been taken care of, the Inquisition invites you to share a meal in greeting of our most honored guest – Archon Radonis of Tevinter. Your Imperial Majesty, may I present, the Inquisitor, Lady Clarice –“

“Trevelyan, also of house Pavus.” This time, Josephine’s surprise shows as the man in questions smoothly cuts her off. Even Clarice cannot keep her mask intact. He had named her of house Pavus – Dorian’s house, named her – Holy Andraste.

“Archon Radonis – it is a pleasure to have your company this evening.” Clarice’s voice shakes subtly, rushing to salvage this. The Orlesians are stunned into silence. This one declaration could throw months of work into turmoil.

“My lady, the pleasure is of course mine. You have done me a great service with our alliance.”

“I – I did what was best for Thedas, that is all. It made sense to have you in our corner, you are a powerful man and the Venatori-“

“Originated within my nation’s borders. I agree, your worship.”

He unfolded himself from the chair he’d been lounging in and Clarice felt her breath catch. This man radiated power, demanded respect in a way few did, and he’d barely spoken thirty words yet. Approaching the Inquisitor the Archon’s eyes sparkle and he stops just shy of her. Entranced, Clarice is still for a moment before her cheeks flush and she dips into a flawless curtsey, low enough to name him of higher rank, but not low enough to put him above Celene. This was going to be tricky. He was an Emperor of sorts. His title named him Imperial, after all.

As she stands, he bows, lower than one would expect and his hand is stretched toward her. This time, Clarice does not hesitate. The game of politics is in full swing, and her hand slides into his. She absently notes that his hands have callouses, slight ones, in the same places hers did – he carried and used a staff, yet did not bring it to the hall? “You are much more beautiful than the rumors let on, your worship.” His lips brush against her knuckles as he rises up from the bow, the barest hint of a smile on his face.  The Inquisitor turns yet a shade darker, eyes flickering around the hall before landing back on the Archon.

Oh, but he was handsome, that nose did suit him, and his voice was, oh it was _gorgeous_. Deep, dark - the sort that struck you at your core and either terrified you, or made you soak your smalls while going weak in the knees. “You flatter me, Ser, and I must confess, I do not know how to properly address you. Forgive me that I must ask.”

“Nonsense, your worship. I speak the truth not false platitudes, and there is nothing to forgive. I’ll wager all the gold in my coffers that Tevinter hierarchy is not a common subject of southern Theodisan conversation. You may address me as Archon Radonis, your Imperial Majesty, or simply – Danyal, but only if you give me the honor of calling you Clarice. “ His smile is charming, and he’s leading her to the table where Varric sits. The Archon places Clarice in the seat he’d vacated scant moments before, before taking the chair to her right with a flourish. She is wordless in the face of his easy familiarity. How he doesn’t bat a lash at the Nobles in the room, indeed, he seemingly ignores them and does so without giving offense!

As they sat, the conversation in the rest of the hall seemed to suddenly restart. Furious whispers and some no so quiet comments are bandied about.  Varric looks like the cat who at the cream – and surely he will be able to if this meeting goes well, or very poorly. What a story to tell.

“Your Skyhold is magnificent, if in a slight state of disrepair.  I notice some of your towers are without roofs and several lower rooms are not being used.”

“Ah, we’ve only been here a short while yet, I am sure before all is said and done, Skyhold will be returned to it’s former glory. Or perhaps taken beyond it, Archon Radonis.”  Her smile is light, words carefully chosen. She cannot be sure he isn’t looking for weakness to support a withdrawal from their alliance. She also cannot be sure he isn’t gauging how much a threat the inquisition is as a whole.

“So formal, your Worship.” There is that smile again, white teeth shown off as he leans back in his seat. The man seemed unable to do anything but sprawl, and it is utterly fascinating to the young woman.

“I take it your Imperial Majesty has never been to Orlais? Formal is all part and parcel to that culture, and I have been knee deep in that culture for a while now.”

“But you are not Orleasian. You are of the Free Marches.”

“Yes, that is correct.”

“For your order then, I assume.”

“You assume correctly, Your Majesty.” Her lips twitch at the sides, and she gratefully reaches for her wine goblet when it is filled and presented to her.

“You are much too beautiful to hide behind a mask. I hope I can convince you there are – what is that quaint turn of phrase in common? Ah, greener pastures.” His fingers turn his goblet in a careful circle as he regards her, those bright blue depths turning darker for a moment.

Clarice is sure she’s mistaking his meaning, but those of her circle within earshot all look thunder struck – Dorian especially. If he could, he would be cooking the Archon where he sat in a flash fire. “I – will have to ask you to be clearer, Archon Radonis.” The goblet finally touches her lips and she takes a short draw. It will not do for her to be even slightly inebriated tonight. One or two glasses will have to last her.

“Clearer? Are we already forgetting the game of masks?” His head cants, amusement clear in every line of his face. One of his brows is bisected, and he has crow’s feet around his eyes, his hair has touches of grey around the temples, you had to be within several feet of him to see it, but it was there. Those were things she hadn’t noticed before.

“I have little taste for such a game tonight.”

“Ah, then let me lay it all on the table for you, my dear Inquisitor Trevelyan. I wish to marry you – if you’ll have me.”

Metal clangs against wood and Clarice feels the pull of the fade a split second after. Her cup is set down, her hands flat on the table as she pushes up from her chair. “Dorian!” Her dearest friend – cousin, looks ready to murder, and her reprimand is like a slap in the face. She can see it. Clear as day in those expressive eyes. Anyone else might miss it, but the Inquisitor sees it.

“Dorian, please. The Archon –“

“Meant no offense. Indeed, it would raise your family to new heights, were Clarice to accept this, as I would need to name an heir before any children were born of the union. My rule would be solidified; no one would dare attack the husband of the Herald of Andraste. It would be as if I’d been crowned Divine _and_ Archon.” That deep voice was steady as he laid out his desires, clear as day for everyone with in earshot. Clarice can’t find it in her to be scandalized. She’s had several such offers of marriage already. This position of hers held power. She was beholden to no one but the Maker and her conscience; the Inquisition was practically a city-state at this point.

“Take your blighted offer and –“

“ _Dorian_.” Her voice whips like ice, and the Altus is cowed, extremely displeased, but cowed. The veil ripples as his power is let go, and cautiously the cousins take their seats. Now, Clarice can give her attention completely, or as close to completely as she can manage, to Danyal.

“You do realize I hold no love for the Imperium. The only Tevinter citizen I have _any_ love for is Dorian.”

“So you would marry him?”

Clarice chokes and Dorian makes a strangled noise. “No –we, it isn’t like that. He is my dearest friend.”

“So you desire friendship? You wish to be wooed?” The Archon is genuinely interested it seems, barely acknowledging the looks Viviene is shooting him and the whispers between the First Enchanter and Ambassador – speaking of, when did Josephine slip in?

“Doesn’t every woman wish at least those things from someone she is to marry?” Her eyes dart to Dorian, remembering their conversation about his family. She’d thought it was mostly exaggeration, but it apparently wasn’t. “You must be looking for heirs, Imperial Majesty, a partner to lighten the weight of your rule, not just to solidify it. What makes you think I am suited to such a task?”

He is studying her, the reactions, the words, and the lilt of her voice no doubt. Weighing it all, looking for something. Some small indication that he might not be wasting his time on this endeavor, on furthering his proposal to her.

With a mental start, Clarice realizes the room has been silent ever since she stood to keep Dorian from hurling a fireball or worse at the Archon. Every ear in the hall is turned to them, even as the food is served and the quiet clink of cutlery on plate starts. The brunette mage wishes the floor would open and the earth swallow her whole. To the Void with this game and all the nobility who play it.

“You are absolutely up to the task. More so than any woman currently residing within the whole of the Imperium. You master the rifts, you lead an army the likes of which Thedas has not seen in an Age, named the Herald of Andraste, a mage, and so very modest. I do need heirs, and I do need someone to share the weight of rule with. I need someone incorruptible. Someone who is powerful enough no one will go against us when we introduce change. Someone who is my equal or my better.”

Her breath catches in her throat, and several other people gasp more audibly. He had practically screamed that she was his equal, and yet, that could not be at all correct. Clarice was but a simple circle mage, learning the ways of Rift Magic out of necessity rather than desire. She had not even become a senior enchanter before the circles fell.

Viviene was a more likely candidate than she for an Archon’s wife.  Her head shakes, as she reaches for her goblet once more, taking a long draw from it this time. There was little point in attempting to recapture the game. He had shaken her. This round was his.  “You flatter me yet again, Archon Radonis. I am but a humble mage touched by providence. I have never claimed –“

“Only the fools do,” he cuts in smoothly, leaning forward, his elbows setting on either side of his plate. “Let me be frank – you did Tevinter a great service allying with us. Daring to anger Nevarra by accepting our proposal when they too had one for you and daring to pull your family ties to keep that from happening. You may not think it, my lady, but you are a force to be reckoned with. You dole out death and fates worse than that without blinking, without overstepping boundaries that have no clear lines in this point of our age. Florianne should have been put to the axe, but, you did not, why? Because she is Celene’s cousin and had been in line for the throne until your sentencing. Regicide is a hard line to cross, even if it would have been in the most vague of senses.  That Mayor – I would have had him tortured to death, repeatedly drown and brought back so he could fully understand the fate he left his town to. You gave him a shred of honor in his death. This is the woman I see before me. This is a woman I would share power and my bed with.”

Sweet Maker’s mercy. Clarice has lost her breath, lost her good sense, because she is considering this proposal. A proposal from a man who she’d never seen before to day or heard of until a month ago. He was the most powerful man in a nation full of free mages – the nation that had become synonymous with evil to the rest of Thedas. But, she was considering the proposal  _seriously_. There was something about the bluntness of him, of the way he effortlessly navigated the situation, his lack of posturing, his confidence, his  _being_ that intrigued her.

“Her worship will have to consider such a proposal, your Imperial Majesty.” Josephine’s honeyed tone brings Clarice back into the present, letting her set down her goblet and smile wanly. “Yes, I will consider the proposal. How long will you be visiting us, Archon Radonis?”

“A fortnight, you worship. I understand you have quite a lot of responsibilities to tend to, I do not wish to keep you from them.”

“It will be good to have a break if I am honest.” Her smile strengthens and she waves a hand delicately toward his plate.

“Please, eat. I would hate for you to be underfed during your visit.”  

“I will eat, if you agree to dance with me later this evening.”

“Dance?”

“Yes, I heard that you were quite something to watch in Halamshiral."


	4. The Archon

The Archon eats, as promised, after extracting a promise of dance from Clarice. It is a quiet affair at first, filled with meaningful looks from her inner circle before Varric – glorious, wonderful, talented Varric – starts up with the stories. The Inquisitor is grateful, after the heaviness of the subject matter just a half mark prior, the joviality of embellishment was welcome.

“Your Imperial Majesty, did you know the woman you intend to woo, is something of a dragon huntress?” Perhaps Clarice was not so grateful. She sends Varric a baleful look, shaking her head almost imperceptibly.

The Archon, in his watchfulness, finds his lips curling with amusement. The Lady Trevelyan was as modest as his informants had asserted.  Far more lovely however, a lesson in contrasts, with her hair so dark and her skin so fair. Not to mention her eyes, deeper in color than the great tear in the sky had been, full of emotion. She's no small slip of woman either. She's got a sturdy set of hips, no doubt brought into stark relief against her waist by aide of corsetry, but Danyal can see she's not fat. No, months of trekking across Thedas has toned her. Her arms show it, there is strength in them, she is a staff wielder after all, and whirling those hulking things of wood and metal is no easy task. To do so on a regular basis- well, he has already noted the strength it's given her. Her hands show signs of staff use as well, he'd noticed it when she put her hand in his. Her callouses are more pronounced than his, but not enough to put him off entirely. The whole package of her is quite alluring, really. 

Letting his eyes swing to the distant cousin, he finds them to be remarkably similar for being so far removed. The Altus has that same set of expressive eyes, simply in a different color. Their hair is the same deep color – likely more due to chance than anything.

What really caught his attention about the Altus in the Inquisitor’s company was his vocal distaste for the status quo of the Imperium. Views that had Pavus stayed in Tevinter would have had him labeled a blood mage within the decade. It seemed to the Archon that providence touched the Trevelyan and Pavus houses in equal measure.

To get the Inquisitor, he would have to sway the Altus. He could tell already from the younger man’s outburst, the way Clarice had responded. Friendship ran deep there, and the knowledge of family ties would only strengthen it. Swaying Pavus to his corner was a task likely suited for a longer period of time than a single fortnight.  Even so, Danyal is a man who gets what he wants – what he needs.

At forty, it was wildly uncommon for him to be unmarried still, something the Imperium’s nobility were starting to push. They wanted a claim to the throne. All of them clawed for higher titles when the middle and lower ranks of society were rattling dangerously. Tevinter is a decaying society – he is well aware of that. But to bring change, he needs a wife so unwavering the Maker himself could not sway her from their path.

Which was why he was seated in a revitalized keep, amongst _Orlesians_ and listening to a dwarf bard spin a truly captivating account of the first Dragon his object of desire had defeated. A Fereledan Frostback to be precise. The Archon was pulled in despite himself. Frostbacks – aptly named after immovable mountains, were hell to deal with. Ever since the re-emergence of dragons, those were the ones to be put down at their youngest. They clung to life with a tenacity many species could not hope to begin mimicking.

“There we were, me, tiny, the seeker and Inquisitor, half charred as the big girl calls for back up _again_. That dragon knew when she was getting into hot water that was for sure. So she calls for backup and Clarice gets this look on her face. She’s all narrowed eyes and pursed lips, mind whirling so fast you can feel the winds whipping at your hair if you’re within twenty paces of her.  She looks at me, and I’m looking at her, thinking ‘shit this can’t be good’, when she says ‘Varric, we’re dealing with the dragonlings.’ As if this were some small task! Half a dozen dragonlings with a ready to nest Mother fighting for it’s life and she thinks we should split a four man team into two!”

“But it worked, Serah Tethras! You are leaving out the part where it worked and not a single one of us died that day,” Clarice’s laughter fills the room, or seems to. It isn’t that false tinkling laughter that the noble women of Orlais are prone to. It’s warm, coming from the depths of her throat and swelling forth. Danyal decides that he quite enjoys the Inquisitor’s laugh. He hopes to hear it many times over before the night is done.

The realization does not make him start or pause. His attraction to the Inquisitor was more than simply a desire for her power to be firmly behind him.  He desired her point blank. Quick glimpses of her when she’d come in from her campaign reminded him of stories he’d been told as a child.  The powerful Queen riding into battle with her knights, forging a path for her fellows. Warrior Queens who had no stomach or use for political scheming or flowery words  - that was the image Inquisitor Trevelyan invoked as she rode her Marcher bred coarser through the gates of the keep. Dirty, weary, but full of life, the bearer of responsibility with a different sort of grace than one might normally desire to see in action – it all made her beautiful and seemingly more worldly than her years.

The judgments had given him a measure of her, from the moment she walked from her tower to the moment she stood from her chair. This woman was not comfortable in the spotlight, but had taken to it with what he can only imagine to be the same verve she’s rumored to have taken to everything else. From the reports that poured in via his operatives throughout southern Thedas, the Herald had drove forward, into the heat of battle without a care for herself. The drive behind her fierce and wild frost magic was the desire to see the rest of the world safe. She didn’t close the breach for her own sake, though that might have been a part of it, she closed it to keep _Thedas_ safe.

He’s met heroes in his life, heard the tale of the Warden, the Champion – but this woman surpassed them in his mind. The Warden was driven by revenge, to see Rendon Howe cut down for his treachery. The Champion was driven by a need to keep her family safe, and then, when that Knight Commander went mad? That was survival at it’s finest.

“Wouldn’t you know it was Frosty who killed the beast though? That dragon got a face full of ice spikes and then the blade of our dear Inquisitor’s staff in the heart. I think Tiny fell in love with her that day.”

The bard’s voice filters back into Danyal’s thoughts, jerking him away from his admiration of the mage to his right. A dragon slayer too? What was it about the women of Southern Thedas? They all seemed to have a penchant to take up arms and then just to prove they were the most fearsome warriors in existence – killed dragons.  That the dwarf brings the Qunari into the conversation is not lost on Danyal.

The two nations have no love for one another, and the citizens even less. Qunari philosophy was fascinating, but ultimately too limiting, too full of prejudice to let stand by the Archon’s reasoning. Mages with their lips sewn shut, collars and control rods guiding raw magic for no other purpose than destruction? It was folly at it’s finest. The Antaam was nothing more than a pack of sharpened knives, held back only with a will so fierce he’s not sure if it is bred or cultivated through rigorous training. What the Archon does know – is that Seheron will be lost if he does not figure it out, either the Fog Warrior will take it or the Qunari and neither option is what he wants.

“Yeah, I did. Boss is fierce for a human. Never seen the like of her, even Red is softer than Clarice.”

The Archon raises a brow, eyes sliding to the brunette in question. Her face is flushed and her hands holding so tightly to her cutlery her knuckles are white. Ah, so the dwarf and Qunari are close to her. He hadn’t been sure.

“Fierce women are to be treasured, Serah Tethras, Serah Vashoth.” His hand reaches for the goblet of water, hand curling around its stem and bringing it to his lips for a sip. “They should be lauded, wrapped in the strongest cloth, the brightest metals and put at the front of an army, for that is where they bloom, amongst the din of swords clashing, feeling the ground tremble beneath their progress.  No woman so capable should be trapped in silks and made dance to another’s tune.”

Appraising glances from the Commander and Ambassador. There was much being said without really being said. He is declaring himself above caging a woman such as Clarice while the others are attempting to warn him off. They think him callow, that he would break the woman to his right in order to have her bend to his will. Has he not already said he had no such desires? Do the southerners truly listen, he wonders.

Ah, he’s caught the Inquisitor’s attention again. Lovely, he had hoped. “Messere, surely you cannot think women capable of –“

“Inquisitor, but I do. Women are not as soft as many men would like to think. You, the fairer sex, are capable of a vengeance men cannot ever hope to recreate. From you life is brought forth into the world. Was it not a woman who brought the word of the Maker to us? While we may differ in philosophy of _what_ that woman was, bride or mage, we agree that she brought us a sort of enlightenment. A woman felled the archdemonn Urthemiel, a woman shook a den of blood mages to it’s very foundations. Now, again, a _woman_ is saving us all. “

He’s got every female in the room’s attention and basks in it. Danyal wasn’t stupid; this age was being lead by women. To have one of those leaders at _his_ side? If it can be done, he will be but a footnote in history – but to be such a footnote! If he can have Clarice, and let her loose upon the Magisterium, if he can facilitate change through her, and have her at the same time?

“You look surprised, your Worship.”

“I am. Barring the men who follow me to battle, most of the blue blood look down their noses at me. I am a –“

“Novelty. Yes, I feared as much. Those men would put you in a gilded cage and –“

“Let me go mad.”

  
“Yes, exactly.”

Her lips, lovely if a touch thin, but exquisitely shaped, pull into a beautiful smile. He has made it over the first hurdle then. A genuine grin lights upon his lips.  “I am glad you think so, Archon.”

“My lady –“ Ah, and here is the rub – the Altus. “Come, we should start the dancing, should we not? We are after all the two most beautiful people in the room.” That arrogance has her laughing, head nodding as she pushes her chair away from the table, napkin neatly set beside it.

“Come, cousin, I didn’t see you dancing at Halamshiral.”

“Dance with those _harpies_? You wound me. I was thinking of my bottom, I assure, you. Though, there were several officers in attendance I could have been happy to start a scandal with.”

“Your Imperial Majesty?” Lady Montilyet is watching him closely; he doesn’t need to look at her to know that.

“Yes, Lady Montilyet?”

“You are, very bold in your desires.” Her hands push her plate forward so her hands can fold together on top of the polished tabletop. She means to find information, to extract it from him as gently as possible. Danyal decides to indulge her.

“Perhaps. Bold is what will win that woman’s heart, however. Not simpering, not shy declarations of love. “ He feels more than sees the Commander’s quiet embarrassment. A smirk pulls at the elder man’s lips. He hadn’t even thought the Commander a contender for the Inquisitor’s hand. Interesting.

“She has responsibilities here. She cannot be seduced away.”

“Who said anything about seducing her away from her responsibilities? I am here to woo her, yes. But take her focus away from the Venatori? From that – that darkspawn claiming ties to the Imperium of old? No. I am not a madman, my Lady.  Just one who seeks to secure his hold on his throne.”

His head nods in the direction of the Inquisitor and Altus. The younger man is leading her in a simple dance, lips smiling as he talks but eyes full of fire, of anger, and a touch – just a touch – of betrayal. “That woman, she’s going to save us all. I have no interest in distracting her from that task.”

“So why now, Archon Radonis. You could have waited –“

“What, and miss my chance? I am Monarch, Lady Montilyet, an odd sort of Monarch, I’ll grant you – but ruler none-the-less. To wait until the dust settles would be to pass my chance on to someone else. I will not let my chance go.”

“So you are here to seduce her and then leave within the fortnight? Giving her promises that may or may not be kept once this mess has been put to rights?” Ah, the Commander is a Ferelden. So full of passion, so simple in their words.

“You mistake me, Serah, for a man swayed by the basest of desires. I will not bed Lady Trevelyan ‘les she is promised to me. I am not some rogue who sleeps with whomever he finds prettiest and sneaks away in the night. When I leave, I aim to have a ring on her hand and my banners flying proudly when I ride through the gates of Skyhold.”

“You are a distraction. Our Alliance is –“

“Important, is it not, Commander? As a Templar you were well educated, yes? You’ve a small army of researchers here – but Tevinter’s entire ruling class is made up of researchers. They all want to be written down in history as having discovered _something_ , **anything** of merit. It drives them as surely as becoming part of the Magisterium drives them. I offered them for the Inquisition's use, and I meant it, the alliance will stand even if I leave here empty handed.”

The blonde man is sneering. This one is not of noble blood, a commoner. And he sought to win the Inquisitor’s heart for his own? It almost makes Danyal laugh. Soldiers who became Kings were one thing; they could easily elevate a common woman to nobility on their rise. But a noble woman – a Queen, like Lady Trevelyan, she could not raise a soldier to be her equal. Though, he fancies she _might_ be able to. After all, she did elevate an Elf to nobility.

“I promise you both, Ser Rutherford, Lady Montilyet, I have only good intentions here. My alliance will be honored. You cannot fault me for seeing merit in a match with the Inquisitor, however. She is a remarkable woman. That she rose from obscurity, simplicity and now works magic that is just being discovered in the wake of this disaster cannot be ignored.”

“No one can ignore the Boss. That’s a problem we keep having to address.” Daynal tears his attention from the advisors to the Qunari. He’s leaning back in his seat, the great mass of him deceptively at ease. “The Boss, she’s no virgin, you know?  She’s played the Game and won it. She _inspires_ through her modesty. That woman defies every Qunari principal – being a Mage without an Arvaarad, claiming womanhood while fighting on the front lines, and the Triumvirate would still ally with her.  She’s got you ‘Vints salivating, she’s got the Orlesians in the palm of her hand, the Templars love her; the Mages want to _be_ her. Where she goes, problems get solved and that is attracting a lot of attention, _unwanted_ attention.”

His head shakes, he lifts the water to his lips, drinking deeply from it. “Serah Vashoth, I think I misnamed you. You see too much and lay it out like it’s common knowledge. You were of the Qun - I should have named you _Tal Vashoth_.”

The Qunari’s face turns thunderous, lips tilting down in an all too familiar manner, the one eye that is visible turning hard. None who had lost the Qun ever seem particularly willing to admit it, but this one, this one had quite a different reaction to being named Tal Vashoth. What a curiosity. Unless, of course, this was not a Tal Vashoth. Would the Inquisition actually have a  _true_ Qunari amongst them - willingly? 

“Bull –“

“I’m fine, met loads of Vints I didn’t like. This isn’t any different.” His great mass pushes away from the table, “Come on, Varric, lets go drink and play wicked grace until we cleanout everyone at the Rest.”

“Sure, Tiny. I’ll be down in twenty.”

The Vasoth disappears with a grace that makes the Archon’s head tilt. Curious. He turns his attention to the rest of the table. Some look bored; the advisors are watching him, unable to sort out exactly what trouble having him here will stir up.  He smirks again, and looks to the makeshift dance floor. A noble has parted the cousins, the Altus off to the side, a new wine goblet in hand while he keeps an eye on Lady Trevelyan.

This is a fine opportunity to talk to him. “If you’ll excuse me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone was wondering Danyal's name is the Turkish form of Daniel. I have no idea why I went with another D name but there you have it. Also: I love Cullen, I really, _really_ do, but for the purposes of this story he must be put aside.


	5. Of Dances and Well Meaning 'Brothers'

The Archon, the Imperial fucking _Archon_ was in Skyhold. The man who lead a decaying people was flirting openly, laying his desires out in the open as if – as if he were a normal man! Dorian can’t make sense of it, isn’t sure he wants to make sense of it. This was not how the nobility of the Imperium operated.

Then again, he has never met the Archon.

He has known Clarice for some months now, however, and will not see her swayed to the Imperium’s side. She was better than that. Better than _him_. He wanted to see her happy, not broken and paraded about like a pretty china doll. It makes his insides twist to see her blush and smile at the Archon. It kills him that the Archon is getting to her.

That pretty face of hers, he’s used to seeing it flecked with blood, with fire burning in her eyes as surely as it freezes on her fingertips. Clarice is a _force of nature_ to be admired from a far and never up close. But this woman-the one sitting at the head of the table right now – he does not know her. He can tell that it’s getting to Varric and the Bull as well. Even Vivienne is a little distressed by the change in the Inquisitor. Vivienne likely distressed for different reasons, however, stemming from the fact the reaction is public and for a Tevinter of all people.

Pulling her away do dance had been the only idea he had after her display earlier. She had never reprimanded him like that. Had never sought to put him in his place. Clarice _trusted_ him, _listened_ to him.

“You’re being terribly rude, _cousin_.” The words are low, calm, hidden with a smile as the brunette Inquisitor steps up to him, taking his hand as they start up a simple waltz.  Dorian had expected her to be a touch upset with him.  He could navigate this storm; quell it before Clarice shut herself away.

“He’s up to something. Remember, I _live_ in the Imperium, darling. I was – am- the son of a Magister. That man at your table is our leader –“

“Just because the nobles are all idiots doesn’t mean -.”

“I don’t trust him, Clarice. Not as far as I could throw him, and I assure you that’s not half as far as I would like. He is too blunt, too forthright.”

“Not all people play games with their words, Dorian. For Maker’s sake –“

“Listen to yourself, Inquisitor. You just met the leader of the Tevinter Imperium and you’re defending him as vehemently as any of your inner circle.”

“I like his view points. You said yourself that not everyone within Tevinter is evil, you even said _he_ wasn’t evil!”

“I can be wrong, you know, though I’m flattered you take my words at value. I have a bad feeling about this Clarice.”

“Why.” Her head cants to the side, eyes piercing as they searched for answers in his face. She felt herself a fairly good judge of character, so this reaction was coming as a surprise to her. Though not as much of one as Dorian might expect. She sees jealousy at play here. Dorian is her dearest friend, her loudest supporter, and the Archon clearly admires her feats of strength. Was he worried she would replace him? Cast him out of her life?

“The Archon might be the most powerful man within the magisterium, but rarely have any of them made waves within it. Radonis isn’t any different. He might promise changes but he won’t deliver. You’ll be married to a man who condones blood magic, who lets his nobles scrabble for more power while the lower classes look on and wait for the perfect moment to strike.”

“Dorian, are you listening to yourself? Did you _hear_ what the Archon was saying? He wants change. Has enacted it if Leliana's reports are true about several Magisters being out right replaced by him. He needs me, the power I have, to enact it. I might be a trophy, but I would be a very well used trophy if nothing else.”

“You cannot honestly be considering it. You would be giving up the Inquisition once Corypheous was dealt with. There is so much more to be done, and you’d just marry and leave it to the rest to figure it all out in your absence?”

“Of course not. I won’t abandon my duties, Dorian, surely you know me better than all that.”

“I do, which is why Josephine interrupted when she did and I am dancing with you now. Radonis is a master politician, were he and Celene to ever meet I am almost sure he could out play her. He gets what he wants, Clarice, by any means necessary and-“

“Dorian, calm down. “ Her voice has gone from hard to soothing, her hand squeezing his as nobles take to the makeshift dance floor formed on the dais before her throne. “You are my dearest friend, and I trust you with my life. I will watch Da-the Archon careful during his visit. If anything seems truly off about him – I’ll send him away with a retinue of Templar guards to make sure he leaves. I promise you, I will not let myself be swayed with pretty words and pretty looks alone. “

Dorian makes a disgruntled noise, and smirks a little. “You haven’t got the greatest track record for resisting the pretty ones. First there’s me, you rarely let me leave your side. Then, the Commander, that man has a broken heart tonight, darling. “

Her eyes flit to the table, to the blonde man who lead the army. He did look rather put out and for a moment, her eyes soften. “You know nothing can come of that, Dorian.”

“Oh, I know. Former Templar and a mage attempting to make house isn’t going to go over well. Not with the chantry and not with a vast swath of nobility Orlesian, Fereldan or Free Marcher.” He almost feels sorry for her. If things were different, if she weren’t the good noble’s daughter that she is. If she wasn’t the Herald, perhaps.

“If wishes were horses all men would ride, Cousin. I will marry eventually, but on my terms and not for some girlish fantasy that would only end in tears. I have my reasons for considering the Archon you know. When this soiree is over with, bring up a bottle of the winter, I’ll go over them with you.”

She’s moving away from him in the next breath, dipping into a curtsey before accepting the gloved hand of some random man. Well, random noble. Gods alive he did not like Orlesians. Their masks were…strange, to say the very least about their fashion sense. The parties were fabulous, but the fashion grotesque. Vivienne was the only mildly redeemable one, and even she wore those awful masks.

He moves to the side, quietly refusing a woman who asks him to dance. He didn’t usually, happy to put on a show and make the other men sigh in frustration because they could not dance half as well as he could, but tonight he hasn’t got the stomach for it. Mostly because Dorian knew, _knew_ that the Archon would be whisking Clarice into his arms soon, guiding her around the floor and attempting seduction. It made his blood boil and go cold all at once.

Politically the Imperium was too focused on the Qunari to care much about the rest of Thedas. But there were rumblings of discontent. Many people read the history books and saw all the land they had lost. Some wished to turn their backs on Seheron, to retake Orlais or Rivain. Perhaps even conquer the Free Marches, as they hadn’t before. If Radonis was hiding expansionist leanings and got Clarice to say yes to his proposal, Thedas would be embroiled in wars for the rest of the age. A grim possibility if Radonis and Clarice managed to even stay alive long enough to see the end of the age.

Dorian lets loose a low sigh, snagging a new goblet of wine from one of the serving girls. Stationing himself against the wall next to the door that lead to Josephine’s office, his eyes fall on the table where the Iron Bull and Varric were apparently speaking with the Archon. Maker preserve him, he’d forgotten about the Bull in all the badly quelled panic. It would be a wonder if the Archon made it back to Tevinter at all. The Ben-Hassrath agent would likely be sending ravens out for the next fortnight almost religiously.

This was a mess. A great big gaatlock filled mess.

When the Iron Bull stands and leaves, a stormy look hangs around him. The Archon had gotten to him. That thought makes Dorian’s head ache. No one got to the Iron Bull except his Chargers and Vivienne from time to time.  The man was seen as a stonewall of unflappable confidence.  Then the damned Archon is standing and coming toward him, goblet in hand.

“Serah Pavus.”

“Archon Radonis.”

“You seem to think I’ve got nefarious designs on your Inquisitor. “

“Now, whatever put that idea in your head, your majesty?”

“Oh, it’s just a hunch I expect.” The damnable man smirks, _smirks_ and his thumb turns the ferryman ring on his middle finger. “I am not the Magisterium, you know. My mind isn’t consumed with the desire for more and greater power.”

“I find that very hard to believe. “

“Do you? Pray tell, what evidence do you have to support that disbelief.”  
“You could outlaw blood magic, for real. You could strike down arcane laws that have little bearing on our current society, you could –“

“Yes, I could. I could also be dead within days because of it. You are aware of that fact I assume.”

“So then, your life is more important than an attempt to do some real good in the world.”

“Don’t insult your own intellect with such idealistic anger. Living to see the changes become cemented into the mores of society is more important. Would you have your Inquisitor just throw herself at this Elder One, this _magister_ calling himself Conductor?  Of course you don’t. You want her to plan, you want her to have an army behind her, to have weakened him first before the final strike. You want her to survive, not just because she deserves a life afterward, but because any changes she has wrought depend on _her_. You think the elf; Briala wouldn’t be murdered within days of the Inquisitors death, were such a thing to happen? That all these nobles wouldn’t just forget she broke the Templars chains in the truest manner she could?  You think the _chantry_ wouldn’t just erase her from history for being a Mage and willingly bringing apostates into her ranks without thought to check them?”  The Archon lists off things and situations as if he had been following the Inquisition since it’s inception. Dorian isn’t sure if that could be true. What with the on again off again war over Seheron, with having to deal with actually running an entire country; surely the Imperial Archon just did not have the time to devote to the proceedings.

“You’re very well informed.”

“Any Monarch that isn’t knee deep in reports about the Inquisition is an idiot. Inquisitor Trevelyan can change the world. She has the power to do it. Her name alone gives people pause. A woman who should be dead twice over, a mage powerful enough to walk through the fade physically, to tear the veil asunder – it doesn’t matter how she got that mark on her hand, what matters is it has not consumed her, has not left her open to possession. What matters is her army. She leads this powerhouse organization, has sway over Templars, over Orlais – that matters.”

“So you want her for her power.” Dorian doesn’t like the sound of that. Though, the look the Archon gives him is one of annoyance rather than alarm or smug confidence.

“If a man wants Clarice Trevelyan he needs to know what comes with her. Her power is quite alluring, but I don’t want just that from her. I want _her_. For the sake of the Imperium surviving into the next age, I _need_ her. Enough that I am unwilling to play word games and unwilling to let you be an obstacle.”

The younger mages eyes narrow, the pieces starting to fall together for him. Or a theory was forming at the very least. Radonis was attracted to Trevelyan, perhaps he hadn’t been before the visit, but he was now.  He needed some unshakable force beside him because he wanted to change things within the Imperium. Truly change them, not just play at it.  He didn’t seem to truly care about garnering more personal power, political power perhaps, but he had made no mention of personal magical talent the entire night.

Dorian sips at his wine, contemplating the information he has, that was readily given. He still feels like he’s missing things, like Radonis isn’t telling the whole truth.  It’s something he detests about politics; one could never be sure what was real and what was being fed to you to turn your gaze away.

“I won’t sway her to you. “

“Not even if I promise you will be the heir?  Regardless of any children created by the union.”

“I am not power hungry, nor mad enough to think that you would do something like that. There hasn’t been a mage elevated to Archon in an age or more.”

“I assure you I would.” Those sharp blue eyes are bearing down on him, and were Dorian a lesser man he would squirm. “Pavus the Pariah, the one who has no interest in following his family’s machinations toward power. The mage who did not aspire to the magisterium, and who thinks the breeding process of the nobility is –“

“So you’ve researched me. Bravo, Archon. Your people are very thorough.”

“They are. I’ve had my eye trained on you for a while now.”

“Bullshit.”

“You and Alexius were attempting to unlock the secrets to time travel. You think that information didn’t get out? You think that _I_ ,of all people, wouldn’t have been watching? Dangerous field of study, that is.  Can you imagine what would have happened if you succeeded? I would have had to have you and Alexius killed, all research destroyed. That sort of power is beyond dangerous – it is world ending.”

Dorian’s head tilts back, resting on the wall. He hadn’t ever thought of it that way. But he’d been young, wanted to surpass expectations still. Time travel was the perfect way to do so. Consequences weren’t on his mind at the time. Alexius likely didn’t give a damn as long as he could save Felix from the taint sickness that plagued him.

“She isn’t a pawn. Inquisitor Trevelyan is anything but a pawn. She isn’t a trophy either – not something you can have in your pocket to break out a parties and say ‘look at me, and look what is mine’.”

The Archon clears his throat; thumb manipulating his ferryman ring once again. His features shift from casual annoyance to a put out sneer. Clearly the ruler has come to the end of his patience with Dorian’s line of thought and statements. “Let me put it to you this way, Altus Pavus, I am one of very few single leaders in Thedas.  If Celene were a man or had heirs that didn’t attempt to murder her, if Ferelden’s King weren’t already married, in Nevarra’s King weren’t also already married, if Antiva weren’t ruled by thieves and assassins, if the Qunari practiced marriage or anything near to it and the Free Marches got their heads out of their asses – they would all be here, they would all be looking to bind the Inquisitor to them in marriage. Lesser nobles are already trying, some of them for far less altruistic reasons, and with far less _innocent_ intentions. I’ve already made it quite clear my courtship will be chaste to your fellows. Now I make the same statement to you – the only of her kin within the keep. I’m not here to bed her and leave- hoping that she might bear a child and be _forced_ to wed me - lest it be the end of her reign within the Inquisition. I want no bragging rights for having had her, for winning her through devious means. I am not a plebeian, I want a Queen, I want Trevelyan _beside_ me, not behind, not below, _beside_. Either allow me the honor of your blessing, or watch and swallow your tongue while I go ahead with my plan anyway.”

Dorian feels surprise welling inside him and ruthlessly stomps it down. He was right; Radonis was actually attracted to Clarice. If he simply wanted Clarice’s political power, he would seduce her until she couldn’t think straight and convince her to elope. Or as close to, monarchs and religious icons didn’t really have the luxury of eloping. But Radonis has said several times now that he wanted _her_. Her being Clarice.  He made a point to declare her of house Pavus – laying a political claim on her that only one other nation and city-state could do, he made a point to state everything he wanted in stark and unflattering terms so as to bring attention not to the country he ruled but to _him_.

“You’re really trying to do this on your own merit.” The realization slips from Dorian’s lips before he can think better of it – not that thinking better of it would have necessarily stopped him at this point. Radonis’ reaction is subtle, his eyes shift, he lifts the goblet to his lips, sipping just long enough to gather words together, hiding any emotional indication of surprise, amusement or even annoyance.

“I court her because of her merit, why should I not put forth my own?”

“Maker’s breath.” He can’t believe it. He honestly cannot believe it. The Imperial Archon is infatuated with the woman behind the legend. That was the only rational answer to all of this. Radonis isn’t admitting it out right, but ‘courting her because of her merit?’ Who the bloody hell says that? 

Straightening he points a finger at the slightly taller man, his face serious for once. “As her kin, as the only _blood kin_ she has here, I am watching you. I don’t know if I believe everything you’re saying, I’d be a fool if I did. However, Clarice is her own woman, _if_ she indicates she really does want to marry you, I won’t say a word against it. I trust her to judge the situation in her favor. But, know that you are being closely watched, Radonis. If you so much as slip her tongue –“

“You’ll have that Templar after me? The Seeker likely wants to unman me already, so I hardly need to put her in the roster. The Qunari, perhaps?”

“All of us will hunt you down and kill you, Archon. We are her family.  She trusts us. You hurt her, your life is forfeit.” Dorian grinds it out; annoyed the Archon chose to make light of his words. The man had the most irritating ability to do that he was finding. Serious as serious could be, completely regal in demeanor and then suddenly - completely flippant.

“Noted, Altus Pavus. If harm befalls Lady Trevelyan in my company my life is yours.” The chestnut haired mage is smirking, pushing his mass away from the wall to bow to the younger man. It shocks Dorian, and gives the Archon the opening to turn abruptly and head for Clarice. She’d promised him a dance, and by the Maker he would have it.

Clarice had barely been paying attention to whom she was dancing with or what they spoke of. It wasn’t one of the noblemen; he was too timid in speaking to her that much she did cotton on to. Not that it mattered, really with Dorian and the Archon standing side-by-side, seemingly intense in discussion. The entire dinner had been  - interesting for lack of a better word.

She’d heard a little of what had gone on a the table once she and Dorian had left it, noticed the Iron Bulls exit and spied Varric leaving now.  Josephine and Leliana were standing together at the edge of the room, where Varric usually stationed himself, speaking with bowed heads. Cullen was nowhere to be found, nor was Vivienne. A throat clears at her shoulder, and she startles, stepping on the foot of her partner. Apologizing profusely, she extracts herself from the now trampled Chevalier's hold, curtseying while he bows.

“Apologies, my lady, I didn’t mean to startle you. I was simply coming to collect my dance.” The Archon’s voice washes over her as she straightens, a smile fitting itself on her lips as she turns toward him.

“How could I forget, your majesty, of course,” She’s curtseying again and he bows in kind, before offering her a hand. The song is changing, likely at request of the Archon. It wasn’t a song Clarice is familiar with, so it must be a tune from Rivain or perhaps Tevinter.

“Do you by chance know dances outside those of your court, my lord?”  She asks it as she takes his hand, letting him pull her a step forward before his free hand settles on her waist.

“Alas, my lady I am ill educated in dances outside those practiced within my court. Will you trust me to lead you a while?” His voice is softer than it was earlier, as if reflecting their proximity to one another. Or perhaps, he is not always so commanding, and is attempting to show her such. Clarice isn’t quite sure which it is, but she finds herself smiling in reply. It is a slight smile, the corners of her lips pulling up a fraction of an inch as she nods.

“I’ll trust you to lead me, my lord - for now.” 

Amusement washes over Danyal’s face as he tightens the hand on her waist, drawing her closer. They weren’t so close as to cause a scandal, but they were decidedly closer than any dance Clarice knew called for. He waits for her free hand to pick up a handful of her skirts and they’re off.

He guides her around the dais in a series of familiar steps. Familiar but not put together in the same series to form an Orlesian or Free Marches dance. They were all muddled, placed in a different order to a different beat, and there were times when his hands both settle on her waist to lift and turn her. It was actually quite fun to learn, if a little stilted due to her inexperience with it. The Inquisitor wouldn’t admit it, but she quite enjoys being picked up so easily, though she is no slight wisp of a woman. “You’ve managed to cause quite a stir, Archon Radonis.”

“I imagine I have. Most people never see the good side of my people. All they see are slavers or mercenaries. Though, not all mercenaries are terrible people.”

“Too right. One of my friends, he leads a mercenary band; he’s a good man. If completely outrageous at times.”

“The Tal Vashoth that I had the privilege to make the acquaintance of just a few moments ago?”

“Yes, his name is the Iron Bull.”

“He’s very protective of you. I’ve never met a Tal that didn’t completely give over to their baser instincts. He is – interesting.”

Clarice’s shoulders hitch a touch as they make a turn, eyes widening when she’s dipped suddenly and chuckling softly when she’s righted again. The laughter trails off when she decides a little lesson on the Iron Bull is in order.

“Bull is an intensely passionate person. He keeps his friends very close; they are his family – though he would never admit that. He still follows the Qun in his own way. It is a bit of a wonder he follows me so readily, unleashed and wild thing that I am.” She does not reveal that Bull is in fact not a Tal Vashoth at all. Bull may have told her of his Ben-Hassrath station, but it wasn’t her place to tell anyone outside the Inquisitions confidence, a place where the Archon still firmly fell.

“Another person to watch out for while I’m here?”

Her eyes narrow, mouth tilting at the edges. “What do you mean by that, messere? “  
“You know my people and the Bull’s have little –“

“ _That_ is not what I meant. Don’t insult my intelligence, my lord.”

“Very well, my lady. Your cousin has made it clear, if harm befalls you in my company, my life is forfeit.”

While Clarice is quite impressed with Dorian’s protective streak, she’s also quite put out that he’s talking to the Archon about her in such terms. She isn’t spun glass and he well knows it. The Iron Bull’s words from earlier taunt her. _No one can ignore the Boss. That’s a problem we **have** to address._

She’s furious. Furious that’s she’s only now realizing the men of her company have been _warning others off her_.  Like she couldn’t do that herself quite effectively? As if. OH those _men_ of hers! Pausing abruptly and causing the Archon to half stumble over himself she takes a good look at him.

“My men seem to have forgotten that I am a woman who makes my own decisions, while treading my own path. They’re like brothers, the lot of them.” The tone of her voice makes the Archon raise a brow, head tilting to the left a bit, and curiosity in his gaze. That curiosity becomes shock when she invades his personal space rather deliberately. She half expects the Archon to step away, preserving propriety in the face of the rest of her company, if not the nobles. But, he doesn’t, his eyes are simply trained on her face.

“My lady?”

“If there is one thing a lady enjoys most, my lord, it is showing her brothers they do not hold sway with her.”

He hasn’t got a chance to retort, because Clarice’s hands take hold of his jacket – the finely tailored Imperial Vestment that marks him as Archon and uses it to drag him down. Down far enough that her lips press against his.  It’s not a romantic kiss; this is all impulse, the fervent and sudden desire to remind everyone in the keep that the Inquisitor makes her own decisions. As quickly as it starts, it is over, leaving blue eyes wide and green smirking as she smooths down his coat.

“Sister Leliana, Serah Pavus, walk me to my chambers. Ambassador Montilyet, please escort the Imperial Archon to his guest suite. I do believe all this dancing has tired us out.”

With a half smile on her lips, caused not only by the shock of the Archon at her boldness, but Dorian’s rage, Clarice leads the way to her tower. Fully expecting those she called to follow her. After all – they had information to gather and plans to execute. One feast wasn’t going to put her completely off her game.


	6. Beginnings of Plans and Archonish Musings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terribly sorry for the delay with this chapter. It was a bit difficult to get out because I'm in the process of a move. So for a while things are going to be slower than I'd like and likely you'd like. However, I hope you enjoy the chapter!

The Archon is left watching the scion of house Trevelyan float away with all the grace of any noblewoman. He was actually quite shocked. The Trevelyan family was known for being devout Andrastians, either pledged to the chantry or the Templars, and the south had the oddest ideas about what it meant to be Andrastian. Chastity seemed to play a large role in such things south of Tevinter, and yet – here was the Inquisitor. Yes, it was only a kiss, and a chaste one at that, but Maker.

“Your Imperial Majesty?”

Danyal blinks as he is pulled from his revere rather abruptly by the honeyed tone of the Ambassador at his elbow. Her eyes are sparkling as she watches him, clearly pleased with the other woman’s little show of self-agency. He’d underestimated this facet of Clarice. The Archon is pleasantly surprised, a small grin forming on his mouth as he folds his hands behind his back and turns toward the caramel colored woman.

“My lady, I do believe the Inquisitor was right. I’ve tired myself out, would you lead the way?”

“Of course, my lord, please follow me. The rooms we’ve readied for you overlook the garden, and you’ve come at just the right time. Skyhold seems perfect for blooms. If you wish to pray, there is a small shrine down the stairs from your suite. Follow the smell of the incense, you won’t be able to get lost.”

Montilyet is a master at her craft, he can tell with how easily she ignores what just transpired and executes her duties. She is a consummate politician. He wonders if Clarice will insist on keeping her on – to have the Lady Montilyet be the liason for the Imperium to Antiva, or perhaps simply southern Thedas. A soft sigh leaves him, a hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

Daydreams like this were the entire reason he was here. He would either leave triumphant or have a renewed hold on himself after being crushed. His infatuation with the Inquisitor started as a simple interest. Another female with the fate of the world in her hands, a female mage – much like the woman she was declared Herald to. At first he’d been worried, this could launch a new era of Exalted Marches, a new era of Southerners murdering his countrymen.

That had not been something he was keen to see, and thusly he’d sent more agents to Haven to watch. They were carefully picked, skilled enough to evade the spy mistress employed by the Inquisition. He hadn’t realized they’d also had to evade a Qunari as well. Tal Vashoth or not, Qunari had an uncanny knack for knowing when citizens of the Imperium were about. Through his agents’ reports, he began to find an actual woman behind the sensational story of her walk from the fade, her survival of an event that had leveled an entire building.

He had read of her relentless work to quell the mage and Templar skirmishes in the Hinterlands, marveled that she took the time to aide refugees and stabilizes the region. Her true purpose there had been to secure a single chantry mother, and horses. At best, the mission would take a week, perhaps two. Trevelyan stayed for almost a month, scouring the lands for rifts, for the rogue strongholds and later bandits.

Reports from the Storm Coast were sparse. It was all Venatori activity, Darkspawn activity being addressed, searching camps for Maker knew what. From there, his agents had little to report until she’d returned from Therinfold Redoubt. That had been quite something. At least in the Archon’s eyes. Facing a greater demon, on that sought to take her mind, likely possess her or worse, and she had come out unscathed. But Haven, the attack on Haven. The Inquisitor should have died there. Her legend should have become the rallying cry for millions as they flooded the ranks of the Inquisition’s forces. Yet she survived. Blessed be the Maker.

That was when he knew Clarice Trevelyan was someone he needed. He’d just been looking for an opportunity. Thank the Maker that mad bastard Corypheous had chosen to attempt to destabilize Orlais’ throne. It had given him the opening to send his messenger to the Inquisition. The Magisterium was currently up in arms, feeling no obligation to this world issue other than to state the Venatori were fanatics. They did not have his eye for power, nor for change.

He didn’t care that he was being stationed in the tower directly joined to the Templars’ via the battlements. He could deal with the sneers and threats from her kinsfolk. Danyal was nothing if not patient and focused. He had waited years to become Archon, letting the elder die a peaceful death before taking over at nearly thirty.

He bided his time, replacing a Magister here and there with one of more progressive leanings. It would be no different with this courtship. A triumph would be leaving the keep with another invitation to visit in hand; a miracle would be her acceptance of his suit. Smoothing a hand over his beard, Radonis muses that dealing with cobwebs and listening to builders is a small price to pay for such events to pass. He’ll even be gracious to the Orlesians if needs must.

Clarice enjoys silence until the door to her tower closes. Then and only then does the storm that is Dorian Pavus shake loose. “Maker’s hairy balls, Clarice! Did you just kiss the fucking Archon? TO PROVE A POINT?!”

Leliana keeps her peace, looking highly amused at the mage’s outburst, but not so subtly hustling them away from the first door and on to the second. The shorter brunette mage’s lips thin, nostrils flaring as she takes a deep breath. It seems two storms were going to have to be weathered this evening. Clarice at least has the sense to keep it locked up until they are safely inside her quarters, glass doors thrown open so the wind might steal some of the volume they were sure to rise to.

“YES! I kissed the blighted Archon and I’ll do so again if it takes my fancy. You are not my father, nor my Knight-Commander, nor my training Commander, nor my First Enchanter! You have no say in what I do or do not do and with whom I do or do not do it, Dorian!”

“To the void with _that,_! You came to me for advice _still_ come to me! You were the frightened little mageling in Haven I saw walk through fire and come out half broken in the peaks of the Frostbacks. I helped teach you how to use your magic in battle and not get skewered because you asked me to. I am you friend; damn it Clarice, and you are playing with things that are beyond you. That man is not as mild as he seems!”

The spymaster works her way around them, making for the wine stores to take stock. Clarice didn’t keep more than a cask or two up here, but usually it was to either the Ambassador or her own tastes. Their beloved Inquisitor only ever cared if the wine was sweet or not.

“Just because I ask for your council-“

“And you bloody well asked me for it on the topic of the Archon!”

“-does not mean you can warn him away from me!"

“Any man with an ounce of sense barely needs a word to know to stay away from you!”

The redhead pauses, waiting for tears or the tang of magic to fill the air. Dorian was many things, a braggart, a flirt, notorious trouser chaser but he rarely let his tongue get the better of him with Clarice. It was a testament to how angry he was that it had and at such a volume. Leliana was sure the windows shook with how loudly he'd made that declaration. For a series of long moments the only sound is the wind rushing into Skyhold, around it, the echo familiar and comforting.

“So –“ and here is the real storm, the Inqisitor and not Clarice speaking, the woman made of Obsidian, forged in fire, defending her torn pride and tattered emotions. “Am I so unlovable, so undesirable, that men need but a word to run the other way? Is that what you’re saying, Serah Pavus?”

Leliana fancies she can feel when Dorian flinches, when some of the wind is kicked from his sails. He isn’t going down, oh no, she’s heard of their spats before. The inner circle was not harmonious and Clarice readily argued with any of them – even Varric.

“You are not unlovable, Clarice. You are beautiful; you are powerful, of noble blood eight ways from the Maker’s day. You are perfect in every fucking way to –“

“To anyone who doesn’t care I am a mage.”

“As if that matters when you are ‘touched’ by the bride of the Maker. At best, it erases the stigma of magic laced blood, at worst – it creates a fetish or novelization of your talent! Which is what you need to be aware of. You are not _just_ anything! You’re a noble at war with being mage in this respect.”

“I beg to differ –“

“Shut up and listen. You aren’t dealing with Southern gentility any longer. You think that once word gets out the Archon is after you there won’t be other Magisters to send letters, betrothal portraits? They will want your power, but I’m not worried about them.” And let that be a testament to how lowly he thought of southern nobility.

“A chevalier might respect you, but he will never be your equal. Chevalier are soldiers, the lowest rung of the high social ladder. He might simply want children, a small chateau in the outskirts of the Emerald Graves. He might want elevation, to better accommodate his wife of middling rank. A minor lord, a middling lord, they could be happy with you as a trophy. They could be content to show you off at parties, to get in with the upper echelons. And that is based solely on your birth rank.  
But you have risen to something beyond nobility in the eyes of much of Thedas. God-touched, prophet touched – which ever it is this puts you on par with the Monarchs. This is a fact you cannot ignore, that much of Thedas will _never_ ignore. You’ve a spymaster, ambassador, commander, a standing army that grows nearly by the hour. You have pilgrims coming to your keep, nobles who prefer this ‘court’ to that of Orlais. It won’t be long –“

“I understand.” Clarice’s voice is steely as she cuts off Dorian, and it’s now that Leliana feels the storms are quelled enough for her to speak. She emerges from the wine store, three glasses carefully ferried to the side table before she perches on the couch.

“Your Worship, much of what Dorian says is true, if dramatically stated. We stand apart from the world here, and will continue to do so until the Inquisition’s end. But, I have no desire to impress that upon you further. I leave that to our pet Altus. I am far more interested in why you asked me up here.”

“To help me get this void taken corset off, of course.” Clarice is joking, but Leliana’s brow ticks and the redhead herds the other woman toward her nightclothes.

“And in seriousness, your worship?”

“I need every single bit of information we can find on Danyal Radonis. No more rumors, I want secrets and facts.”

“That will take far longer than the time he has allotted to be here.”

“I plan to have him stay longer.”

“Your Worship –“ Leliana’s tone is full of disapproval.

“I will not be letting our efforts slide. The Exalted plains have suffered much, but will hold for a time now the dead have been dealt with. It is mostly small jobs of finding supply caches now. Even the Dalish have been taken care of – though I would appreciate if you sent some elven operatives to keep an eye on them. The Hinterlands, Redcliff, and Crestwood are stable. The Inquisitions presence can be drawn down some, but not entirely, I wouldn’t have bandits thinking those regions were easy prey. “ An appreciative sigh leaves Clarice when the gown is off, laid over her desk and the corset follows it soon after. “As for the Archon – he offered us researchers, and himself in a way, I’ll use what he’s offered.”

“You can’t be serious.” It sounds from across the room, a Tevene curse following the sentiment. “Of course you’re serious. You’re going to convince him to join us? What if you get him killed, have you thought of that?”

“Do you really think I’m that stupid? I will not be subjecting him to traveling and fighting with us. But, I do need longer than a fortnight to decide this. “

“He has a country to run!”

“And I have a world to save.”

“What exactly do you hope to gain by his staying on?”

“What does anyone hope to gain from a man like the Archon? Knowledge. A fortnight is easily acted through. We were at Halamshiral for nearly a week after that Masquerade, hammering out details with Briala and Celene for a smooth transition with Inquisition support behind the coming changes. Not once did we see Celene’s mask come off. I wouldn’t be surprise if her embarrassment over having been caught keeping a sentimental ornament was simply part of it. She reacted how she was expected to upon such a secret being found out. It was hardly earnest shock she displayed.”

Her nightgown is tossed over her head as she approaches the spymaster and Dorian. Both of whom wonder where the frightened mage that had vehemently protested being called the Herald of Andraste had gone. Leliana still remembers the brunette’s fear and confusion during their first meeting. Dorian still sees the terrified determination etched into her face from the night hell broke loose upon Haven. She isn’t frightened anymore. The Inquisitor is evolving, adapting to her situation, her station.

Dorian eyes the wine glasses critically. When this was over, he was going to drink himself into a stupor that would last until midday. This was utterly mad, completely and utterly mad.

“All right, say we go along with your hair brained scheme. You entice to Archon to stay a while longer. We go about business as usual or as close to. Eventually you will have to give the man an answer. You said earlier you had reasons for considering his suit.”

“I do.” Clarice folds herself onto the couch, taking up little room and allowing mage and rogue room enough to be comfortable. “Tevinter has been vilified for ages, painted as the source of all evil. While a measure of that may be true, I doubt it is any longer. Just listening to Dorian talk, there are issues within the country, but over all it is a country like any other. I have no aspirations to greatness, but I do wish to see changes wrought upon this world of ours. Mages need freedom. The Chantry needs to be reformed, dramatically. I think that Tevinter can be a key player in seeing these things done.”

“You want to reform Tevinter so you can reform the bloody world? Clarice there is no realistic way for you to free everyone. You cannot win every battle.”

“I don’t seek to win every battle, Dorian! I am not asking for elves to have all their rights restored, for mages to return to society and Tevinter to be some shining beacon of hope; or for everyone to sit around a campfire and sing the chant of light together. I just want to make steps toward amicable relations within all the nations of Thedas.”

She was made for the bloody Archon. Where the Archon was jaded and too mired in politics, Clarice was idealistic, optimistic and refused to bend or fail. Dorian heaves a sigh and reaches for the glass. “There is little chance that the Magisterium will go willingly toward change. You’ll want to dismantle the slave trade, or abolish the class system, outlaw blood magic, which mind you, I am very much behind. However, these are things that require subtly – a thing you do not always possess my dearest cousin. You prefer to bludgeon things about the head with your magic until they give up.”

“That’s rich coming from you. I don’t see you sweet talking the blighters we have to deal with. In fact I distinctly remember you using the dead to fight the dead and the demons with a certain sort of –“

“You can’t bargain with demons, Clarice. So hush.”

“You can’t always bargain with nobles either.”

“Her worship has a point. And this pairing isn’t all together a bad one. Should the Inquisition continue, Clarice would have to split her time between Tevinter and Southern Thedas, more advantageous than one would think, actually. Our agents would obviously surround her while in your homeland, and be the subtly that she needs. A southerner marrying into the northern empire is unheard of, especially one who for all intents and purposes represents the Orlesian chantry. The marriage itself would bring about a great deal of change to Thedosian thinking. It’s worth note that Radonis seems to want is Clarice’s clout added to his, and is quite attracted to her. But, I will check. In fact, I should be going, your Worship. I have ravens to send and –“

‘Secrets to gather for me. “ A smile lights on Clarice’s lips, blush on her cheeks as she blatantly ignores the idea of Radonis thinking her attractive. Leliana wasn’t always right… “Thank you, Leliana, as always, your work is indispensable, as is your voice of reason.”

“Not to mention my fashion sense, yes?” The Orlesian spymaster smirks, flowing from the couch to stand, leaving her wine glass before descending the stairs.  
“Do not stay up too late, your worship, tomorrow your have quite a bit of work to see to. Not to mention our guest.”

Clarice says nothing in response, but does tip her glass at Dorian before downing half of it. Only when the second door’s echo reaches them, does she let out a great sigh. Dorian raises a brow, sprawling across the rest of the couch and watching his Inquisitor with interest.

“Are all you damned Tevinters attractive? And so suave! It’s maddening.”

He snorts and sips at the wine. “Of course we are. Well, not all but the terribly important families all seem positively ethereal when it comes to aesthetic. Did you know there was cosmetic magic to fix blemish scars and broken noses? We pioneered that magic.”

“Of _course_ you would.”


	7. The First Morning pt.1

In the Predawn hours, Clarice woke and couldn’t find sleep again. She lay in her bed awhile, tossing and turning, trying to get her mind to slow just enough she could catch a few more precious moments within the fade. She didn’t enjoy it like Solas professed to, but the fade was much more pleasant than it was often given credit for. However, the brunette couldn’t calm her mind enough for sleep to take her, and so she dressed in her many layers to head to the training yard.

Likely the Templars and soldiers were already well into their morning exercises. She would give them something a little more this morning. The Commander had nearly had an aneurism the first time she took to the field with Dorian in tow. She’d had to train that way for months, back in the little town of Haven. She hadn’t had the stamina to fight, her mana dwindling rapidly and her legs protesting long before the quarter mark or half waypoints of a journey.  Cassandra had barked at her, as was her custom, but did little to _help_ Clarice address her shortcomings. Varric had helped her with her aim a bit, making her spear unsuspecting Rams with ice here and there.

It hadn’t been until the Breach was closed and the Venatori bore down on them that everyone agreed Clarice needed training. She’d nearly died that night, and indeed was very much a mageling on the battlefield. Dorian was oddly proficient in magical battle. Though he was a fire mage, he helped her turn her talents to war.

Now as her boots sound on the keep steps, and her staff thrums in the morning air, soldiers who know her drill salute, and the Templars pause in their exertions. Cullen, though no longer a Templar reacted as his former brothers, head turning toward where the veil pulled and swirled. A grimace pulls at his lips. He detested having Clarice on the training grounds. Not because she was a mage, but because she’d chosen his fellows as her training partners.

She had no fear of their swords, and battled as if she were sure to win, no matter how closely sword edges came to cloth and skin. Even so many months since her first trials with the Templars, he cringed whenever she woke early.

“Good morning, Ser Knights. Might I join you?”

“Your Worship, of course.” He is always the one to answer, de facto Knight Commander of these Templars who had joined them. The others fall in, several of the newer recruits shifting nervously.

“No use of Silence, Mana drains permissible, do _not_ injure the Inquisitor and she will not return in kind. Until the sun breaks o’er the keep.”

From there, it is a flurry of movement, a pair of shouts as Clarice finds the new recruits and fade steps beside them, opening a small rift to keep them busy. It drove most of her opponents to distraction. They couldn’t tell what sort of rift she was opening, and by the time they realized it simply pulled them to a single point, she was already closing in for a kill. The recruits are left alone, however, as Clarice zeroes in on the Leuitenants who are readying mana drains. She twists the veil summoning faster than they can muster the dregs of lyrium in their system to drain her.

Small boulders strike them, not even half the size of ones he’d seen her use training with Solas or that strange little Enchanter who never spoke her own name.  Ice comes next, a great wall to keep them busy.

Cullen tilts his head, a scowl on his face. She’s left herself open. Solidly open. She never usually does that. His head tilts, eyes sweeping the field when a knight finally drains her and steps forward. Her boots ice to the ground and it’s then Cullen realizes what the Inquisitor has done.

“Clever girl,” his voice is tinged with pride, actual pride, to see the Inquisitor using such tactics. She’d never be able to take on a dragon by herself, but Clarice would never go down without a fight. It had been quite debatable the first few times he saw her train, stumbling through spells weaker than some apprentices he’d seen cast.

He hadn’t credited her with half the power she now showed until the Tevinter arrived, honing her, guiding her into a destructive force. It wasn’t until much, _much_ later that the advisors even knew _why_ Clarice had had such a terrible time of battle at first. In Ostwick, she had focused herself on passive magics, she could call up small rain storms and had developed spells for _crop work_ , of all things. It was truly a wonder to know of that woman and then attempt to reconcile her with the one currently handing his Templars - their swords and shields with a smirk on her face.

“Cullen, your men are slow this morning.”

“Too much excitement last night, your worship.”

“Oh? I don’t remember them being in attendance at the soiree, Serah.”

“Ah, my lady, it was Wicked Grace night with Serah Tethras and Serah Iron Bull.”

“Say no more, Commander.”

He felt the veil tug, twist, and a snap of cold settled around him, making him shrug deeper into his cloak. She was relentless, and currently driving his troops to their limits, giving them a lesson in how they should _always_ be ready for battle. Even after being too deep in their cups and wasting away all their money.

Cullen was so entranced by her, the way her staff whirled and sometimes how it didn’t move at all, that he didn’t register a taller figure beside him for a moment. It wasn’t until the veil twitched that he knew and the smile fell from his mouth. The twice-blighted _Archon_.

“She is magnificent.”

“That she is, your Majesty, and only becoming more so as time wears on.” The reply is stiff, and much less cordial than it should be. However, the ex-Templar can’t bring himself to care. The northerner had his sights on the Inquisitor, that didn’t set well with him.

“Does she do this every morning?”

“No. Just when the fancy hits her now.”

“She wasn’t proficient with the offensive magics?”

Cullen mentally curses for having given anything away. “She pursued humanitarian magics from what I understand. Ostwick as a city state was remarkably stable and rarely called on for offensively capable mages from its equally stable Circle.”

The elder man raises a brow at that, not looking at the Commander. He watches instead as Clarice works her way through the Templars who’d volunteered to spar with her. They put up a good fight, but her techniques were not southern. He’s met southern mages who’ve fought to their relative freedom in the Imperium. They served as anything from body guards to chantry sisters to midwives in noble families. When they were called on to demonstrate their prowess, it was a good deal of shield and firing the most powerful spells they had.

“Who taught her?”

“I don’t believe that needs answering, Commander.” Clarice’s voice rises above the din of the spar, and she spares them the barest moment of attention.

Danyal sucks in a vexed breath. This information was harmless, at best. He simply wished to know more about her. Then again, knowing more about her was to know her weaknesses. Something she likely wouldn’t allow him to know for a very long time, if ever.  Ever being the more likely scenario if she chose to refuse his offer. She was being careful. He could applaud that, even if it irritated him to not know something. His head inclines toward her when she’s facing toward them once more.

“Thank you for your time, Commander.”

“Your grace, it is my honor.”

His teeth grind as he walks away from the field, the slight from the Commander had been polite, and slight enough that lesser men would have ignored it. Danyal was _not_ a lesser man, but he would endure Rutherford’s determination to name in _less_ than a ruler in the way he addressed him. It was a small sacrifice to earn his way into the Lady Inquisitor’s good graces. He would take his lumps.

Making his way through the training yard, Danyal finds himself in the small makeshift market that’s taken root under the archway of a battlement walkway. There was a mage peddling writs of favor – something Danyal found rather quaint, and an armorer. The horse master was advertising several new breeds for personal purchase, and there were several other stalls as well. It surprised the Archon a touch. Skyhold was quite out of the way. He’d assumed this fortress would be more rugged, less refined, and in several ways it had delivered that.

It was clear that the fortress was meant to be seen first as a military strong hold and as a base of pilgrimage second. The soldiers and Templars milled around in full armor, Haven’s refugees having settled here and there, seemingly either taking up sword or becoming the staff for the keep. There weren’t any civilians running about,  
he hadn’t seen a single child yet in his morning stroll.

A stroll that was carefully watched, Danyal had had a shadow from the moment he stepped from his suite. A fact that amused him greatly. The spy mistress was worth her salt to be sure. He’s truly intrigued as to whether or not she knows he has agents within the Inquisition. Feeding him reports while tending to their assigned tasks. She can’t not know, but no one was infallible either.

“Ah, your majesty, I see you slept well.” The dwarf is the one to greet him, stationed nearest the door to the main hall. A strategic seating place if he’s seen one. The storyteller could see everything that happened with the nobles, and down with the soldiers if he chose to linger by the doorway.

“Good morning, Serah Tethras if I remember correctly. It was a good night spent in dreams. I admit, this place is quite relaxing. It must be that southern wind.”


	8. The First Morning pt.2

Not half an hour after he’d sat down for some coffee – and how he adored coffee, Antivan invention. It’d be better flash brewed with a bit of flashfire, of course, but the quaint way they made it here was just as enjoyable – Clarice all but storms into the hall. She’s a sight, hair mussed, her cheeks ruddy from the wind and her exertion. Her staff is still strapped to her back as she glided toward the table.

“Varric, my dearest rogue, what stories have you been telling this morning?” There’s an undertone of ice to her question that neither man misses. Honestly, the Archon is confused. She’d seemed very receptive last night, but then, he’d shaken her from her game. Maker take the Orlesians and their Grand Game.  Teveinter was so much more practical – backroom deals and selling off attractive children for marriage ties. That was much easier to deal with than coy looks and words with four meanings behind them.

“My lady, he was just regaling me with another tale dragon hunting. Am I to understand you’ve dealt with _three_ since the beginning of your inquisition, and there have been sightings of yet more here in the south?” Perhaps if he turned the conversation to violence, the little ice sprite might warm a touch.

The effect of his question on Clarice seems minimal at best. She raises a brow, lips curling into a smirk as she unbuckles her staff from its harness. It is set beside him as she takes a seat.

“Everything you’ve heard? Absolutely true. We’ve eaten more dragons here than is absolutely healthy, I’m sure. Harritt actually made a throne for me, from the skulls and bones that we can’t cut down enough for armor. It’s a grotesque thing, but served it’s purpose for a time. I much prefer the throne installed now.”

He doesn’t need to turn to know the throne, he’d looked at it long enough yesterday. It was a throne from the circle of Magi. A curious thing, it looked highly uncomfortable, the back made of iron, the seat small and without a cushion. Clearly her Worship was not meant to sit in the thing and be at all comfortable.

“I’ve heard much, my lady, but all of it about the woman who leads the Inquisition.”

“Then you’ve a leg up on me, Majesty, for I’ve heard very little about you. Imperium gossip doesn’t come very far south at all.”

Radonis abruptly realizes he’s been played. He wanted information about her, the woman, and she had nothing in the way of information on him. The brunet isn’t sure if the fact she clearly wants information about him is encouraging or if he should be running for the Imperium and alerting the battle mages to ready themselves for war. Looking at her isn’t giving him much to go on either. She might have willingly let the game mask fall last night, but this morning, she may as well be wearing one of those hideous masks.

He doesn’t like this side of her, but sees the necessity. Wearing your heart on your sleeve got you killed more often than not. That Ferelden’s King had lasted a full decade was a wonder.

“What would you know of me, your worship?”

“For starters, your age.”

“I will be 41 in Eluviesta.” He grins into his coffee as  both the dwarf and Inquisitor seem taken back at his age. Though, the Inquisitor seems less surprised than the dwarf does.

“You take good care of yourself. Bit of magic?”

“No, my lady, I am the product of years of –“

“Careful breeding?” A brow rises as she confirms what her cousin has likely already told her.

“Very. My family sought the seat of Archon, and I provided it – my magical ability and triumphs throughout my stay at the circle and apprenticeship were hard to ignore.”

“And just what _is_ your ability? You’ve seen mine; I’d very much like to know yours. Tit for tat and all that rubbish.”

He almost inhales the next sip of coffee, and it’s Clarice’s turn to smirk, picking up a sweet bun from the platter that’s been delivered for them. Danyal weighs the pros and cons of tipping his hand. This place was crawling with Templar and hadn’t that Hawke woman sent one of his ilk to the Imperium a scant five years ago?

“You aren’t a blood-“

“My lady you wound me with such accusations.” His tone is sharp and it draws the Inquisitor up short. The mirth in her eyes dies for a moment, and Varric’s eyes dart between them.

“ _If_ you would like to _see_ my magical talent at work, then you shall have to be patient. It is not something I idly unleash indoors.” Nor did he tend to do it during the day, well; some of his magic was daylight appropriate, but not all of it. Not the part that classed him powerful enough to be Archon.

A satisfied smile curls his mouth when she wordlessly nods, the cogs of her brain whirring as she attempts to suss out just _what_ magic had to be used exclusively outdoors. Technically speaking, all magic was better suited to large spaces unless one was a healer. Even the necromancers preferred space for their craft.

“Perhaps you’ll show me some time before your departure then, Majesty. It would be a pity to have met you and never seen the prowess lauded by your title.”  Her fingers delicately rip her sweet roll to chewable pieces, depositing them on her place neatly before she pops one into her mouth. He notices she doesn’t take coffee, instead there is a mug of tea set beside her by a servant. He wonders at that, why she prefers tea to coffee. Perhaps she prefers sweet to bitter, or reacts strongly to stimulants. Once she’d extracted the information she wanted from him, perhaps he’d be _permitted_ to ask and know.

It rubs at him that he must gain enough favor with her to ask simple questions. He also realizes this might be her way of evening the ground they stand on. Hell, he isn’t entirely sure what changed between their parting the previous evening and this morning.

“Indeed, if you are so keen on a demonstration, I shall make a point to give you one, my lady.”

“You’re far too obliging of me, Danyal. Now, Josephine informed me, she’s arranged for us to have dinner privately tonight in the garden. Does this mean she’s filled your schedules as much as she’s filled mine? Is this but a stolen moment before the storm of nobles come to greet you, to ask if you really host orgies and practice blood magic naked whilst bathed in moonlight?”

“Maker’s breath, woman.” He laughs and spies Varric putting a hand to his face. At least he wasn’t alone in thinking such stories were outrageously wild fancies.

“I will confirm to you that orgies, if held, are not something I am invited to. It’s well known I do not share my bed partner if and when I take one. As for practicing blood magic _nude_ in _public_ – we’ve laws against both magic and public nudity. There are _children_ within the Imperium, my lady.”

“So you teach them to be ashamed of their bodies? Perhaps the Imperium is not so different to the south after all.” Her tone is smug, though a little condescending. Danyal lets out a long-suffering sigh, smoothing a hand over his jaw. Clarice was being…either playful or very, very taxing to see the extent of his patience. He can’t figure it out, but he knows he’d like to see what effect his preferred method of reprimand would have on her.

“Clarice, we are not prudes. The imperium has some of the most beautiful public baths you’ll ever see.  Shame is not a part of our culture; though nor do we laude exhibitionism. Teaching children the function of their bodies and to rejoice in their personal beauty is charged to the parents. If the parents fail in that mission, one must then rely on education within the circle or the other schools for the untalented to teach function and body embracement. Sex is usually kept out of the equation all together until the early teen years. No one wants to confuse nudity with a sexual situation, after all.”

He wonders at the teachings within the south that Clarice even had to ask such a thing. Surely they were freer with their sexuality? Hadn’t the Empress had a female lover? Hadn’t the Grand Duchess danced with Clarice as if it were a normal thing to do? The report had stated that the Inquisitor hadn’t even blinked at the invitation. He’d taken it to mean – bloody hell.  He was making this more complicated than it needed to be.

“Were you taught to feel shame about your body, Inquisitor?” He tilts his head and lowers his voice, ensuring no one but Clarice and perhaps their awfully quiet chaperone might here him.

“What sort of impertinent –“ Ah, and there, there was Danyal’s answer. Bloody southerners. Discreetly, the Archon shifts his chair toward the Inquisitor’s, careful not to disturb her staff before reaching out and sliding a hand against her waist. Yes, there was padding there – the thick cloth of her robes, the maille shirt to keep arrows, knives and swords from tasting flesh, but the curve is still pleasing. She isn’t willowy, not like elves were often credited for, and she wasn’t sturdy like dwarven maidens. No, she was somewhere in between, healthy, there is strength there, under his hand, and it’s terribly distracting for him.

“Impertinence was not meant, my lady. Though you have answered my question. Never doubt that you are beautiful, Clarice. Never find fault in the curve of your waist or the swell of your hips. And if you cannot bring yourself to believe what your eyes show you, know that I find these things driving me to distraction. From the glint in your eye when you attempt to catch a foe off guard, to the way your mouth curves as you laugh. You, your worship, are the sort of woman wars are fought over.”

She’s caught for a moment, wide eyed, with his hand on her waist, before Varric clears his throat rather loudly. Her her head swivels, just fast enough to have wisps of hair floating around her as she looks at him and his eyes direct her to look to behind them. There she finds a very amused Leliana and simmering Dorian.

“Inquisitor, Imperial Archon, may I bid you both good morning,” Leliana’s light Orlesian accent flows over Clarice and even if she’s saying _nothing_ about what she might have just over heard, the Herald vaguely wishes the floor would open and swallow her whole.

“Yes, cousin, it’s quite the morning isn’t it? That southern wind is positively whipping round the Keep. It was you I heard battering the Templars wasn’t it? Or is our darling Lion pushing them for once?”

“Dorian, of course it was I. Cullen would rather eat his very flattering cloak then set the Templars against the keep’s mages to train. Overly cautious that one, but always effective.” She makes no move to remove the Archon’s hand from her waist; she’s made head way after a fashion in the pursuit of knowledge. Knowing a man’s opinions was tantamount to knowing _him_ after all. Granted, she currently only knew his views on _women_ and specifically her, but it was something. Clarice could work with that. She’d use it to wheedle information out of him somehow.

For now she can be happy, as she turns to reach for her tea, that her presence affects him as surely as his does her. His face is a bit pink, though it’s fading quickly. The color rides along his cheekbones, colors the bridge of his nose. It’s terribly attractive.

Forty name days have passed for him. He truly looked to be at a middling thirty rather than _forty_. He was a quarter again older than her. That should bother her, but it didn’t. Not at all, her eldest brother was just a few years younger than the Archon, he father, was likely ten years or more Danyal’s senior. Still, it surprised her that Radonis was only _now_ looking for a wife. Surely he’d rather have seen his throne go to a child he’d groomed for the position? Or perhaps he was already grooming a successor? But if he was, why offer it up to the Pavus’ family in order to gain her hand? That would set him back months, maybe even years of effort.

Her eyes drift up from where they stare at the inky depths of her tea to consider the little group around her. The weight and warmth of Danyal’s hand is still present on her waist and Clarice can’t find the care within her to request he move it. Leliana looks pleased, which could be for any number of reasons, they did have several operations under way. Dorian looks, well, still a little pinched, but over all to be in good spirits. She leans toward the table, trapping the Archon’s hand against her a bit, and dives into conversation with her cousin over tea and sweet rolls. Eventually even Varric rejoins the conversation, soon five voices are fighting to be heard over one another and laughter fills the great hall of Skyhold.


End file.
